


Anything You Want

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Chandler summons his courage, Miles does a bit of friendly prodding, and Emerson almost can't believe he isn't dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alizarin_nyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/gifts).



> Dear Alizarin_nyc, I wasn't sure if you wanted first-time fic or not, but that's what inspiration told me to write -- hope you'll like it! Happy Yuletide! Thanks so much to my wonderful beta, K.
> 
> Note: For the purposes of this story, episodes 5 and 6 of season 3 are assumed to be taking place in late autumn, a month or so before Christmas. I don't think that contradicts canon in any way, but if it does, please chalk it up to artistic licence. *g*

I.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Miles said, taking a sip of his pint. "It wasn't your fault."

Chandler didn't reply at first. It had been a week now, and Miles was the first one he'd talked to since the team had been given time off. He'd spent the time at home, alone in his flat, dozing on the sofa or sorting his shelves, again and again, clinging to the familiarity of the routine. 

It hadn't helped much. A witness had still died, a witness who had been his responsibility, a witness who had been – 

"Listen, Joe." Miles's voice was insistent. "I know you liked her..."

Chandler shook his head. "I was an idiot. She was a witness – I behaved unprofessionally." 

"Be that as it may," Miles said, "it wasn't your fault she died."

"I should have asked Kent to stay with her." Chandler took a sip of his own ale, swallowing with some difficulty. "I'd already sent him there to apologise. I should have asked him to stay and look after her."

"To apologise?" Miles raised his eyebrows. "What for?"

"He was convinced she had something to do with it." Chandler didn't particularly enjoy thinking about that awkward conversation. "He kept accusing her during interviews. Surely it's normal to apologise to a witness if you've suspected them on the wrong grounds?"

"No," Miles said, scrutinising him. "No, I can't say it is. Otherwise we wouldn't have time for anything else."

"Hm." Chandler looked down into his beer, feeling like even more of a failure. 

"Poor Kent." Miles smiled shrewdly. "No wonder he was suspicious of her."

Chandler looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind." Miles glanced at his watch and winced. "I have to run, or Judy will kill me." He patted Chandler's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, will you?"

After Miles had left, Chandler sat for a while in silence, then got to his feet, placed money on the table, and made his way outside. 

The air was clear and dry, the afternoon sky dark grey. Chandler walked along the river for a while, carefully not counting his steps. After a mile or so, he looked at the street signs and knew where he was going. 

~

Though the calling system was out of order, the little notes fastened by the door bell told him which flat was the right one. Chandler was saved from digging out his phone – or from losing his courage and turning back – by an old man who held the door for him. The stairway was old and worn, but seemed clean. When he'd reached what he assumed to be the right flat, he rang the door bell and cleared his throat. 

A young woman – dark-skinned, slender, somewhere in her twenties – opened the door. She looked Chandler up and down, quickly. "Yes?"

"Sorry to disturb," he said, clearing his throat again. "I just wondered if Emerson was in?"

She looked him up and down again, more appraisingly this time. "Just a moment," she said, before retreating into the hallway. Chandler could hear the sound of faint voices, but couldn't make out what was being said. Then Kent appeared at the door.

He was dressed like he used to be, back in the old days – trainers and jeans and a hoodie – which made him look strikingly young, and he gave a start at the sight of Chandler. "Sir?" he asked, his voice thin with disbelief. 

Chandler cleared his throat for the third time in as many minutes. "I wondered if you had a minute. There is something I'd like to talk to you about." He gesticulated faintly, feeling horribly out of place. "We could go for a walk, or – "

"Sure." Kent bit his lip – an oddly endearing gesture – and glanced behind him. "Just give me a moment."

After a minute or so, he returned, wearing a grey duffle coat and a scarf. The woman who'd opened the door appeared behind him. "Have fun," she said with a teasing smile, glancing at Chandler. Kent waved her off and closed the door behind him.

"Your flatmate?" Chandler asked as they made their way down the stairs.

"One of them." Kent didn't look at him as he fished out his keys and opened the street door. "After you, sir."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Chandler clenching and unclenching his hands, measuring the words in his mind. "Kent," he said at last.

"Sir."

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Kent."

Kent looked at him, then, clearly taken aback. "Pardon, sir?"

"I was unfair to you during the investigation. I brushed off your theory that Morgan – that Ms. Lamb might have something to do with the murders. Even if she didn't, I should have heard you out. I'm sorry."

Kent was flushing now, looking everywhere but at Chandler. "I think we should just forget about that whole conversation, sir." He kicked at a pebble, then blurted out: "I'm really sorry too, though. Sorry about what happened, I mean."

Chandler nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

They'd reached a somewhat livelier street, lined with shops and pubs. Kent stopped outside one of them, gazing at the window for a moment as if considering something, or maybe working up courage. Then he looked at Chandler, an expression of guarded hope on his face. "The food here is really good, sir. Want to stop and have dinner?"

Chandler hesitated. Part of him wanted to go home to his flat and be alone. He'd accomplished what he came for, having resolved at least a bit of the tension that had built up between himself and DC Kent lately. He'd been sociable twice today, counting the beer with Miles earlier. He didn't need any additional stress. He didn't want there to be any more risks of awkwardness, of strained conversation, of hard-to-decipher undercurrents. 

Another part, though, looked through the window at the people inside, the company and the laughter and the warmth. Then he looked back at Kent and found himself returning the small, hopeful smile. "I'd love to."

 

II.

Miles yawned, studying his own face in the mirror. Being a new father at his age was exhausting. He would never understand the blokes who found women half their age and started families in their sixties. Idiots, the lot of them.

When he got out from the loo, the incident room was quiet. No wonder; things had been quiet ever since the team had got back to work after the internal investigation following the Lamb case. Miles didn't mind. There would be another spree killer on the loose before long, if the last few years were anything to go by. Better get some rest while they could. 

He grabbed his jacket and was about to turn off the lights when he heard footsteps behind him and a cough. "Skip?"

Miles turned, raising his eyebrows. "Kent? I thought you were going home."

"I was, but I..." Kent looked down. "I wanted to ask you about something."

Miles put two and two together. Kent usually went to Chandler with his questions and concerns, so this must be about something unfit for discussion with the boss – and Miles had a fairly good idea what it might be. He sat down by a nearby desk and waved Kent towards a vacant chair. "Well, I'm listening."

"It's just..." 

Kent's eyes darted toward him, then away. Miles, torn between pity and impatience, decided to help him on his way. "Is this about the boss?"

Kent gaped, then quickly shut his mouth, swallowing. "Is it that obvious?"

"Depends who you're asking," said Miles with a smile. "Not to him, I don't think. As to myself..." He shrugged. "I've known you for a long time, lad. You never looked that admiring around _me_."

Kent gave him an uncertain smile. "You know I've always looked up to you, Skip. That is – "

Miles waved him off, deciding to go straight to the point. "So you fancy him? Is that it?"

It really was fascinating to see someone blush that hard, Miles thought, mildly impressed. He smiled encouragingly. "It's all right, you know. No harm in that."

"I don't know." Kent met his eyes for the first time that evening. "Apart from the fact he's my boss, I don't know if he's even... I don't know if he even likes me."

"Of course he likes you," Miles said. It was true, as far as he knew. "As for what he is or isn't, I honestly don't know what to think. I'm not even sure he himself knows."

Kent shrugged, looking hopelessly young and lost. "I'd just like to know if he trusts me. That's what I wanted to ask you about. He apologised to me, see, after the Morgan Lamb case – I'd never expected it; I thought, if anything, he would maybe blame me – you have no idea how surprised I was." He sat up suddenly. "You didn't tell him to do it, did you, Skip?"

Miles held up his hands, quite surprised himself. "I had no idea."

"I just want him to trust me. I wouldn't expect anything..." Kent bit his lip. "I remember the Kray case. I don't want that to happen again."

"I don't think it will." Miles felt genuinely sorry for him. 

"You two are close," Kent said, and Miles thought he detected something in his voice – not envy, exactly, but rather some wistfulness, some longing. "Do you think he's... happy?"

Miles shook his head, wondering if he did so whether he was somehow betraying Joe's trust by being honest. "No," he said. "I think he's more lonely than you or I can imagine."

~

The Christmas party at the headquarters was going according to plan, which meant that three hours in, everyone was getting well and truly soused. Mansell had got a karaoke machine from somewhere – probably the one from his latest wedding – and was now belting out "Last Christmas" at the top of his lungs. Riley and Buchan were terrorising the dancefloor. Chandler, true to form, was sitting in a corner, staring into his beer. Miles sighed inwardly, then noticed that Kent was standing to his left, looking in the same direction. Obviously he'd had a few drinks, because he wasn't even trying to be discreet about it.

Miles sidled over and nudged the lad's side. "You should go talk to him."

"About what?" Kent took a sip of his glass, not taking his eyes off Chandler. 

"The best way of organising your desktop?" Miles suggested. He smiled at the sheepish look on Kent's face. "I've seen you copying him, you know. I'm sure he'd appreciate your efforts."

"I am ridiculous," Kent muttered, staring morosely down into his drink in what was an impressive, albeit probably unconscious, imitation of Chandler. Miles refrained from making any comments, tempting though it was. He gave the boy's shoulder an encouraging squeeze instead. "Bollocks."

"I can't help it," Kent said. "I just want him to trust me, and... I know it's stupid! I wish it wasn't like that." His eyes searched Miles's, earnest and pained. "How do you get over something like that?"

Miles thought for a moment. "You know he's flawed, right? He's not some sort of perfect human being. If you're admiring him so badly – "

"I know he isn't perfect," Kent insisted. "I mean, he's great, but he also makes mistakes. When I realised that, I thought it would stop. But it didn't. That's when I also realised I was in trouble." He sighed. "Maybe I should apply for a transfer. I don't want to, it's not that, but – "

"Don't you dare," Miles said sternly. "That would be a coward's move, and you are not a coward. There are two options, though. Either you go and find yourself someone else – which may not be a bad idea, for your sake at any rate – or you go talk to him." He nudged Kent's side again. "Now."

Kent gave him an anguished look, but dutifully set off towards Chandler's corner. Miles watched him say something, and held his breath as Chandler looked up – then, slowly, let it out as he saw Chandler put down his drink, and gesture toward the chair, and give a tentative smile. 

Miles continued to watch the pair in the corner for the rest of the night – discreetly, of course, he was a copper after all – and made sure to divert anyone who looked as if they were heading over to disturb them. Later that night, when he glanced over and saw that neither of them was there, he wasn't sure what to believe, but decided that it wasn't unreasonable to hope for the best.

Damn it, he thought. It was about time Joe had something good happen in his life. 

 

III.

Emerson had fantasised many times, most often against his will, about what it would be like. The one image that had kept returning was that of Chandler looking at him with determination in his eyes – efficient, commanding – and seizing him by his shoulders, and kissing him without hesitation. Even after these last few months, when he'd begun to realise there was more to Chandler than a carefully-controlled surface, the fantasy had been hard to let go of. _If_ it happened – and Emerson hadn't believed it ever would – it surely wouldn't be in the context of a drunken Christmas party, some time in the wee hours, and he surely wouldn't be the one to reach out to his boss, pull him closer, and take the plunge. 

Except that was exactly what had happened. 

"I'm sorry, sir," Emerson had stuttered, feeling his cheeks grow hot. And Chandler had shook his head, almost in wonder – and because of this dazed look, because Chandler hadn't pushed him away or cried out in outrage, he dared to lean in and do it again. And again.

That had been a week ago, last Friday. For most of that weekend he'd been nearly out of his mind with worry, thinking he had well and truly fucked things over, that Chandler must surely be furious with him. He'd shut himself in his room, listening to music like a sulking teenager, only coming out to eat. The flatmates had been on his case about "trouble with the boyfriend" – of course that was Ellie's doing. She'd been a real pain ever since that time Chandler called at his house. 

Monday, though, had presented him with a Chandler who was less aloof than usual, even sending small smiles at Emerson when the others didn't see, as if he really didn't regret what had happened. 

So Emerson had worked up the courage to ask his boss out for a beer the following night, which had been rather successful. After the beer (and a conversation that had, on the surface, not been anything out of the ordinary at all) he'd worked up the courage to ask if Chandler would like to do it again sometime. Going out for a beer, he'd meant, not kissing, though obviously that was what it had sounded like, and he'd blushed and stumbled like an idiot. Chandler had smiled, however, and reached out, and touched his arm. And proposed dinner the following Friday instead. 

Which was, all in all, bloody hard to believe. 

When Friday night came around – free, since thankfully there weren't any pressing cases – Emerson parked his Vespa outside the restaurant with an odd mixture of dread and excitement. Various scenarios were playing out in his mind: that Chandler might not show up, after all, or that he, Emerson, might ruin the whole thing. 

Maybe Chandler had asked him to dinner just to explain, calmly and rationally, why he mustn't get his hopes up. Maybe Chandler would explain that he wasn't, in fact, attracted to men – or that he wasn't attracted to Emerson, at any rate. Miles or no Miles, Emerson had already begun to fill out the transfer papers in his head.

Chandler was indeed there, though, sitting at a table by the window, plate and knife and fork impeccably ordered in front of him. Emerson's heart did a somersault. He tried not to look at Chandler's mouth as he approached the table. "Evening, sir."

Chandler looked up and smiled. "Emerson. I'm glad you could make it."

Only when he got to his feet and started helping Emerson off with his coat did Emerson allow himself to think this must, indeed, be a date. 

~

Of course, the real awkwardness came afterwards. 

The dinner had been pleasant, the conversation much like the one they'd had over beer – and the one at the Christmas party (pre-kissing), and the one at the pub before that again, several weeks ago. Chandler did at one point ask him not to call him "sir" when they were out as friends (he did use that term), which Emerson kept forgetting, though not on purpose. They shared a bottle of red which Chandler picked out – Emerson was relieved it wasn't one of the pricier ones – and at the end of the meal, he felt pleasantly relaxed and increasingly fearless. This was going well, after all.

Then Chandler, cheeks pink and eyes sharp blue, suggested a whisky at his place.

It wasn't as if Emerson hadn't thought about the prospect. Asking Chandler in for a cup of tea (or whatever) at his place was out of the question, since any of the others might be home (and Ellie would be sure not to miss a beat), but he had, on occasion, imagined himself asking, if only to try and picture Chandler's reaction. The thought experiment had sometimes been arousing, sometimes mortifying. 

That Chandler would ask him home like that, however, was still beyond his dreams. Because unless he was much mistaken, Chandler's asking could only mean one thing. And that one thing – well, he didn't quite dare to imagine it. 

But before he knew it, he was walking with Chandler along quiet pavements, the two of them silent except for the occasional comment – "Almost there," Chandler would say – and Emerson would glance at him sideways, and he'd see that Chandler's cheeks were still pink and his gaze determined, as if to say, _This is what you want_.

~

Chandler did indeed have whisky at his place. Cognac, too. Emerson sat on the sofa, nervously twirling the glass between his hands. He almost jumped when Chandler sat down next to him. They were silent for a while, sipping their drinks and looking everywhere but at each other.

Then Chandler cleared his throat. "Emerson, I..."

"Yes?" Emerson managed not to tremble with nervousness.

"I don't want to be dishonest with you. I'm..." He paused, and Emerson, a sinking feeling in his stomach, mentally filled out the rest. _I'm straight. I'm not interested. I'm sorry, but you're making a fool of yourself._

"I'm," said Chandler again, then swallowed. "I'm... not sure how to behave in situations like this."

Emerson looked up, surprised. "Sir?" he asked, then bit his tongue.

"I don't –" Chandler took a deep breath. "I am a somewhat – particular man. I haven't had much experience with, well, intimacy. I ask you to be patient with me."

It was not what Emerson had expected to hear and, quite frankly, he found it a lot more incredible than either of Chandler's imagined rejections. "You mean – you've never...? But sir," he blurted out, not able to stop himself, "anyone would be falling over themselves to have you!"

Thankfully, Chandler smiled at this. "I'm not so sure about that. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Until now, I hadn't met anyone I was comfortable enough with. Not until Morgan – well." He cleared his throat. "She made me see that sometimes it's worth taking the chance."

Emerson wasn't sure he liked to have Morgan Lamb's name mentioned in this context; still, he wanted Chandler to go on. "And that's why... why me?"

A strange look crossed Chandler's features. It took a moment for Emerson to recognise it as insecurity. "You're not interested?" 

Emerson almost choked at his cognac. He put the glass down, then, unable to stop laughing, put a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, sir," he gasped. "Just swallowed wrong, that's all."

Chandler's smile was still insecure. "It's perfectly all right if you don't want to, of course. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't even be asking. I'm your superior, after all."

"Never mind that," said Emerson, feeling bold. He sat up, looking straight into Chandler's eyes, and took a deep breath. 

This was what he wanted.

~

Though Chandler claimed not to have much experience at kissing, he was rather good at it – even better, Emerson thought, than that drunken night at the Christmas party. Sure, there was hesitancy rather than determination, nervousness rather than command, but that somehow made the whole thing all the better. 

They'd somehow manoeuvred into the bedroom – with only a short break from kissing so that Chandler could check that the linens looked all right – and now they were lying atop the covers, Chandler on his back, Emerson on top of him. And it was _brilliant_ : better than any fantasy, better than with anyone he'd kissed before, boy or girl. He told Chandler as much between kisses, and Chandler laughed, a little incredulously, looking flushed and pleased – and Emerson felt giddier than ever before in his life. 

"You smell so good, sir," he murmured against Chandler's neck, kissing his way up behind the ear, down towards the shoulder, nosing under the perfectly-starched collar. "I could do this all night..." 

Chandler squirmed under him. "All night?"

"If you want to, of course. Anything you want." Afraid that he might have been too forward, he drew back, his eyes searching for Chandler's. "Just tell me if it doesn't feel right, and I'll stop. It's supposed to feel good for the both of us."

"Oh, it does feel good." Chandler squirmed again, wiggling so that his right leg was now between Emerson's thighs. "Similarly, I'd like you to tell me what you want. I fear I might be bad at this."

Emerson started to fiddle with Chandler's tie, then drew back again. "Want me to take this off, sir? Or do you want to do it yourself?"

Chandler let him do it, which was oddly touching. He removed both their ties and shirts fastidiously, then sat back and admired the sight: Joseph Chandler, shirtless and spread out before him, like the most impossible of fantasies, cheeks reddening somewhat under his gaze. It was unbelievable. 

Surely anything could happen, now. 

"I do trust you to take things from here," Chandler was saying. The front of his trousers gave evidence to his arousal, but he looked even more nervous than before. "As I said, this is beyond my experience – "

"Don't worry, sir," Emerson reassured him. He felt humbled and not a little awed that Chandler should trust him, out of anybody, this much, enough to go further than he'd ever gone before – indeed, Emerson couldn't quite wrap his head around it, and tonight, he wouldn't even try. He'd just accept it for what it was: an amazing gift, one whose impact probably wouldn't hit him until Christmas was over. 

He reached out his hand and palmed Chandler's erection gently through his trousers. "Does that feel all right?"

"Mmm." Chandler closed his eyes and let his head fall back. "Please go on."

He pulled down the trousers and the silk boxers underneath. Chandler's cock bounced out, pale, long, and smooth to the touch. He curled his hand around it and stroked, and was rewarded with a long moan. 

Emerson was hard himself by now, achingly so. With his other hand he fumbled with his own trousers, enough to pull them down and free himself. Biting his lip, he crawled so that he was straddling Chandler, who was watching him through half-lidded eyes. "Let me know if you don't like it," Emerson said, feeling oddly in control and nervous at the same time. "I'll stop any time you want me to, no question at all."

He moved so that he could get both their cocks together in one hand, steadying himself with the other one. "Are you all right?" he asked when he'd found his balance. 

Chandler nodded, never taking his eyes from him. "Please."

Emerson started stroking both of them together. He tried not to think of the possibility that other ways to go about things might have been better, or at least easier for Chandler (a simple hand-job? Or maybe between the thighs? _Shit_ ). Instead, he concentrated on the feeling of Chandler's cock against his own, straining together as he worked them, and on the sight of Chandler in front of him and under him, eyes closed now and mouth half-open. 

_Unbelievable._

There was a shudder and a moan, Chandler's eyes flew open, and Emerson gasped and came as well, trying to not to spill all over Chandler's stomach and probably failing. "God," he breathed, slumping forward. Through the haze he could hear Chandler say his name, almost awed, and he shook his head to try to get his vision back. 

The room was dark, but Chandler's smile was open, tender. "I see what they're talking about now."

Emerson nodded, momentarily unable to speak. 

Chandler looked down his own stomach, frowning as he did so. "I think I need a shower," he said, before adding hastily, "If you don't mind, that is." He hesitated for a moment. "You're welcome to have one as well, of course."

Emerson found that he was grinning, an intense, bubbling joy threatening to burst out of him in laughs. "Do you mean at the same time, sir?"

Chandler looked insecure, as if he couldn't decide whether it was a joke. Then he smiled, slowly, as if puzzled by his own happiness. "Anything you want," he said.


End file.
